In the west, a whole shard broke away—its inhabitants locked into perpetual sequelization, unable to end.
They called it The Franchise Wound.
Aiden and Jevan stood on its edge.
"This is what they do," Aiden said. "They don't destroy. They curate—until there's nothing left but commerce."
But not all hope was lost.
From the Testament emerged a new kind of page.
A clause.
Not a legal one.
But a Refusal.
A sigil woven from rejection, forged in the fire of self-definition. It could not be copied, and it could not be sold.
Jevan carved it into the earth at the Garden's border.
"This is our answer," he said.
The sigil pulsed.
It spread.
Not fast.
Not wide.
But wherever a Claimed awakened and chose truth over transaction, the mark appeared.
It was not armor.
Not a weapon.
But a shield of intent.
And the Syndicraft hated it.
Orren returned a final time.
He did not offer terms.
Only a warning.
